


Love Itself is Calm

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Caning, Canon Era, Discipline, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I apologise," d'Artagnan says stiffly, looking straight ahead and not at Athos. "I was out of line."</i>
</p><p>
  <i> "Indeed you were." Athos leans over to the armour stand. d'Artagnan's eyes are drawn by the movement, and he feels his jaw drop in horror as Athos pulls a wooden switch out from behind the frame. "Drop your breeches and smalls and bend over the desk."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>d'Artagnan stares at him, horrified, all thoughts of standing at attention forgotten. "You're joking."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Itself is Calm

d'Artagnan finishes up the last of his stew and sneaks another glance at Aramis and Porthos, hoping that their faces will give him some kind of a clue as to what's happening. Something's going on today, and he seems to be the only one who doesn't know what it is. The two of them have barely said a word all morning except when they think he's not listening, mumbling to each other in an undertone, and he's seen Athos for about five minutes since he arrived at the garrison.

As if d'Artagnan's managed to summon him through the power of thought, Athos emerges at that moment from Tréville's office, taking the steps two at a time and then striding over to the group. "Aramis, Porthos, with me. d'Artagnan, you'll report to Moreau for afternoon guard duty."

"I can't come with you?" d'Artagnan says, surprised. This is the first time they've ever left him behind, and he's curious, damn it.

"Not today," Athos replies shortly, already walking away.

d'Artagnan knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he shouldn't be objecting, but he's hurt by what feels like their rejection of him, and the words come out of his mouth before he even realises it. "This is because of last week, isn't it?"

The other three stop and slowly turn to face him, and nobody says anything for a moment; which for d'Artagnan, is all the proof he needs. They're not even denying it. "You're punishing me for letting that man get away!"

He realises that his voice has risen, and that other Musketeers standing around in the courtyard are staring. His three friends exchange glances that suddenly have d'Artagnan nervous.

He belatedly remembers that he's a soldier – and not yet a full Musketeer, which makes them his superiors – and it looks like he's just fucked up.

"I'll catch you up," Athos says to his companions, and suddenly strides forward and drags him off _by the ear_ , like he's a small boy again _._ It's pretty painful, and d'Artagnan has no choice but to hurry along behind Athos' long strides. He can hear a couple of the men in the courtyard laughing, and he grits his teeth at the blow to his dignity.

They are heading in what d'Artagnan thinks is the direction of Tréville's office, but then Athos drags him past and into the main building of the garrison itself. They go up a side staircase and along a narrow corridor he's never seen before, to the last door on the right, where Athos takes out a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, still holding firmly onto d'Artagnan's ear.

"I really don't have time for this," Athos mutters to himself.

d'Artagnan decides it's best for him not to say anything.

Athos manhandles him through the open door into a slightly dark, dank room not ten feet square, with only two high, narrow windows providing light. It's almost empty save for one giant oak desk, bare, which takes up nearly half of the room on its own, and an armour stand in the corner. d'Artagnan wonders if it's Athos' office, and decides not. While he may have a key to the room, he can't imagine him doing paperwork.

Athos lets go of d'Artagnan's ear (which is throbbing unpleasantly), goes to sit behind the desk, and looks at him expectantly.

"I apologise," d'Artagnan says stiffly, looking straight ahead and not at Athos. "I was out of line."

 "Indeed you were." Athos leans over to the armour stand. d'Artagnan's eyes are drawn by the movement, and he feels his jaw drop in horror as Athos pulls a wooden switch out from behind the frame. "Drop your breeches and smalls and bend over the desk."

d'Artagnan stares at him, horrified, all thoughts of standing at attention forgotten. "You're joking."

"I assure you, I'm quite serious," Athos replies, utterly impassive. "Or are you questioning _another_ direct order?"

d'Artagnan's mind reels. Athos looks as calm as ever, but there's a coldness to that calm that d'Artagnan doesn't want to test. He is under Athos' direct command, he knows that: meaning that unless he wants to lose his position, there's no option other than doing exactly what he's told. Even though he hadn't realised soldiering could still be so… medieval.

With fingers that fumble he unbuttons his trousers, unlaces his smalls, and gritting his teeth, pushes them both down to his thighs, and leans over the desk on his forearms. After a moment he summons up the courage to glance at Athos, who is looking out of the window and not at him, and d'Artagnan realises with a flush of wounded pride that not only is Athos caning him like an errant schoolboy, the bastard is making him _wait_ for it first.

It's no more than two minutes, but it feels like an age to d'Artagnan before Athos finally rises out of his chair, cane in hand, and steps round the desk, his footsteps ringing on the stone floor in a way that's probably heightened by d'Artagnan's nervous imagination. Suddenly he's grabbed by the back of his neck and his head roughly pushed down onto the desk, jolting his thighs against the wood's edge. d'Artagnan rests his cheek on the cool surface, closing his eyes in humiliation. This has the effect of making his arse stick out, making him feel even more horribly exposed.

Without warning Athos swings the cane; and d'Artagnan has about half a second to note the swishing sound and think _it's coming_ before the rod connects with his bare arse with a thwack. d'Artagnan grimaces, and hisses through his teeth. It's a sharp, stinging pain that sparks along his nerves, and it _hurts_ – but if he must endure this, he will not give Athos the satisfaction of hearing him make a sound.

Athos hits steadily and deliberately, in a slightly different place each time, with a good pause between each stroke that d'Artagnan supposes is intended to give him time to anticipate them. He has no idea how many strokes he should expect – it could be ten, it could be a hundred. It seems to be marginally less unpleasant with his eyes open, so he looks out of the window, glad that Athos is standing off to his other side, and that no other part of the garrison appears to overlook this room. The last thing he wants is for anyone else to see him like this.

Just when d'Artagnan thinks he's starting to get used to the pain, Athos lands a particularly hard stroke right at the juncture of his arse and thighs, and he lets out an involuntary groan, followed by an immediate flush of shame at letting his weakness show.

And right then, he feels an unmistakeable twinge of arousal.

 _No!_ he thinks, mortified, mouthing _no_ _no no no no_ to himself over and over again like a mantra, but that only seems to make it worse, his attention already drawn to the pulse of blood in his cock as it swells, Athos landing the cane's blows ceaselessly across his exposed arse and thighs. He hopes to God and the Virgin and every religious figure he can think of that Athos can't see that he's getting hard, and _that_ idea is so shameful as to make his cheeks heat, his heart pound, and his cock grow fully erect.

He doesn't think he's ever been so humiliated or so turned-on in his life.

Just as he starts longing for the ground to swallow him up in preference to this ordeal continuing any further, the strokes suddenly stop. He holds his breath, waiting to see if there's more; and when nothing comes, he starts to lift his head tentatively.

Athos must have been watching, because no sooner than he starts to move is Athos' hand back on his neck, roughly holding him in place; and he can't help squirming beneath his grasp. "I didn't give you permission to move," Athos says bluntly. "Another five for that."

The last five strokes are just as hard as the rest, if not harder; but d'Artagnan finds as he counts along in his head that he can bear the pain more easily once he knows the end is in sight.

This time when Athos stops, he doesn't move a muscle.

"I'll give you a moment to collect yourself." Athos' voice is too loud in the new stillness of the room. "Let me know when you're ready."

d'Artagnan turns his head at the sound of footsteps, and he sees the other man walking over to the window. Hurriedly d'Artagnan pulls his smalls and breeches back on, tries to arrange his mostly still-erect cock so it's less visible, and gives up in frustration because Athos surely knows already.

He waits a few seconds, surprised to find he feels distinctly shaky, concentrating on breathing deeply and trying to calm himself, willing his erection away.

"I'm ready," he says at last, and curses the shakiness of his voice.

"At attention," Athos replies, and goes to sit down at the desk again, switch still in his hand, which overwhelms d'Artagnan with a flood of shame that only grows worse as Athos looks him up and down, eyes sweeping over the bulge at his groin with complete disinterest.

"It seems I need to remind you that you're not a Musketeer yet, d'Artagnan," Athos addresses him wearily, leaning back in his chair. "Captain Tréville has allowed you to work with us as my apprentice, as a personal favour to me, and that means that I am directly responsible for you.

"While you should feel able to speak your mind, I am still your superior officer, and when I give a direct order I expect it to be obeyed without question. I certainly don't owe you an explanation, and I will not always give one. Your behaviour reflects on me, for good or ill, and I will not have it said I cannot control my men."

d'Artagnan bows his head, overcome for the first time with an entirely different kind of shame. None of this should be happening, because Athos shouldn't need to be talking to him like this, he shouldn't need to be told. But he didn't think before he spoke, and in doing so he really has shown Athos up in front of his fellow Musketeers.

"I trust this lesson will not be forgotten," Athos finishes, as if the contrition in d'Artagnan's heart and the ache in his arse would let him forget.

"No, sir."

It's the first time he's ever called Athos by a title; and he's not sure if he's imagining it, but he would half-swear something softens in Athos' eyes. "I'll tell Moreau to expect you at one. Dismissed until then."

d'Artagnan all but runs from the building and out into the streets, thoughts in a whirl. He can't stand to be at the garrison until he absolutely has to, but he doesn't want to go to his lodgings either, Constance would almost certainly be there and he can't face anybody right now. He needs to be alone.

He walks for a few minutes until he sees a patch of greenery, where he sits down under the lone tree and rests his head on his arms, trying to ignore the protest from his still-stinging arse, and make some sense of what has just happened.

Athos was right, of course, he thinks dejectedly; d'Artagnan has let him down. The other man has done so much for him – all three of them have, but Athos particularly – and in return he makes him lose face in front of his fellow soldiers. Instead of cherishing their friendship and patronage for the rare gift that it is, he's allowed himself to become complacent and forget what he owes them, thinking himself a fellow Musketeer and their equal. Which he isn't, at least as a soldier.

Athos was also right to say that d'Artagnan isn't going to forget this lesson easily.

Which leads inexorably on to his other, deeper shame: the fact that on some level, he liked it. Even though it was painful and humiliating, or God forbid, _because_ it was painful and humiliating. Or the fact that it was Athos, maybe, he doesn't know if that would be worse or better. He doesn't _think_ he's like that – he likes women well enough, he reminds himself, calling up the memory of Constance's smile and how it makes his heart sing, just to reassure himself.

But ultimately, he thinks, staring resolutely at the patch of grass between his knees, he can't avoid the fact that what he thinks he likes isn't enough to explain how the whole experience made him feel. The pain, the degradation, Athos' hand pushing his neck –

He sits up, shaking his head violently, as if to try and physically rid himself of his thoughts. _It happened_ , he tells himself. It's over. And it won't happen again, because he won't make the same mistake again. While he doesn't understand the way it made him feel, because it won't happen again, it doesn't have to matter. For all he knows, how he reacted could be how anyone would react.

He feels a little calmer now, and as his mind clears, he realises he has no idea what time it is. The last thing he needs is to be late for guard duty after already incurring one punishment today, so he stands immediately and heads back in the direction of the garrison, determined to give the events of the morning no further thought.

 

* * *

 

Despite the strength of his resolve, over the next few days it becomes clear to d'Artagnan that it was naïve to expect he could simply banish the memory of Athos' punishment from his thoughts. Try as he might, whenever he's alone or has time to reflect, the memories creep up on him, even in his dreams: Athos' hands on flexible wood, the blood rush to his head as he's bent over the desk, the swish of the cane licking fiery stripes across his arse; and he wakes more than once with a throbbing ache between his legs that he refuses on principle to take care of.

It's in danger of becoming an obsession.

He finds himself spending as much time as possible around his three friends, as it leaves him a lot less time for reflection; he even volunteers for extra guard duty once or twice to keep himself busy. At the same time, he knows he's less present, more subdued than usual, and he hopes the others see nothing more than a man trying to make amends for his earlier misstep.

It's awkward being around Athos again at first, but he tries hard to act as normally as he can, and he thinks it's mostly working. Nobody says anything to him, anyway, so either they genuinely haven't noticed anything, or Porthos and Aramis have been warned off the subject. Either way, the two of them have never mentioned that morning to him since.

As the days pass, d'Artagnan feels as though he's almost managed to regain some semblance of normality – until one morning he's standing with Porthos watching Athos and Aramis spar, and after a first round with foils, Athos picks up a long wooden stick and twirls it fluidly in his hands, and the association's so strong for a moment that d'Artagnan feels his face flush and his heart race as if it's about to happen again.

He excuses himself and walks off round the back of the building, searching for a few moments of privacy to sort through his thoughts.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks angrily. This can't continue.

But he can't seem to let go.

d'Artagnan likes to think of himself as a man of action; or at least, as someone who doesn't take life's body blows lying down. But this time, he finds himself at a loss. It's not like he can ask for a repeat performance, and any other discussion of the subject with Athos is equally unthinkable, but he also doesn't know if he can stand to just do nothing.  

But what is there to do?

And then an idea strikes him out of the blue, a remembrance of a comment he heard Aramis making over a drink a few weeks ago, about a working girl who'd said that a lot of soldiers came to her to be whipped. He'd paid it no mind at the time, but now…

The idea of being beaten again is equal parts intriguing and terrifying, but if that's what it would take to help him make some sense of how he feels, then maybe he just needs to do it, to make peace with it, and then after that he can truly let it go.

Maybe then he won't have to think about Athos at all.

 

* * *

 

d'Artagnan decides to put his plan into action that very evening, before he has time to talk himself out of it or lose his nerve. He doesn't know _where_ to go exactly, but it's not like there's anyone he can ask; so he ends up waiting until as late into the evening as he can bear, before walking quickly and self-consciously up to the only brothel he knows of, off the rather evocatively named Rue du Poil-au-con 1.

His heart pounds as he opens the door and steps inside. This is the first time he's been inside a brothel with _intention_ , and he has no idea what to expect; but finds himself relaxing slightly as he enters a richly decorated but shabby reception room, with a series of beautiful but bored-looking women in revealing corsets lounging on chaises longues, and no other men in sight. He's gratified to note that a few of the ladies do appear to perk up at the sight of him, and thinks conceitedly for a moment that he's probably quite a bit more handsome than the average punter.

He's approached immediately by an older woman – the madam, he supposes. "Good evening, monsieur, what'll it be?"

d'Artagnan casts a nervous eye towards the girls, one or two of whom are eyeing him appreciatively, and promptly feels horribly embarrassed. "It's… a bit delicate."

"It always is, monsieur," the madam replies unsympathetically. "This your first time?"

"No!" he replies hotly, louder than he meant to. Two of the girls are giggling now. "It's just that…"

In the end he leans over and whispers his request in her ear.

"You'll want Josette for that," she says indifferently, and gestures to a group of girls on d'Artagnan's right. The woman who stands up is an olive-skinned brunette who looks to d'Artagnan as though she could be a fellow Gascon. She's an older woman, maybe in her mid-thirties; but there's something reassuring about her, and d'Artagnan feels himself relax a little.

"Follow me, darling," Josette says with a smile, taking d'Artagnan's hand and leading him upstairs and along a narrow landing. Only one of the doors is closed, and d'Artagnan's quite glad not to hear any sound coming from behind it.

Josette leads him through one of the open doors into a room that's of much the same style as downstairs, as if the decorator has tried to make it look as opulent as possible for the least possible money. The room is cramped, and completely dominated by the double bed in its centre.

"Wash first," she says, indicating a pot of water and some cloths in one corner; and d'Artagnan takes his breeches and smalls down and scrubs at himself awkwardly, glad to see she's at least not paying him any attention.

"What'll it be then?" she asks with a conspiratorial smile, as he pulls his breeches back on. Her accent is pure Paris.

d'Artagnan hesitates. He feels himself starting to flush again; but she's looking at him kindly, and he feels like he can trust her, even though he's nervous of her reaction.

"I want you to cane me." He pauses. "Please."

She smiles in response. "Alright, that'll be two livres. Up front."

The price she names is eye-watering, and for a second d'Artagnan is at a loss. He's probably supposed to haggle down, but he has no idea what a reasonable sum would be for this type of thing, and he's loathe to run the risk of insulting her. Besides, he's so desperate to get on with it that in the end he just says, "That's fine," taking the requested amount from his purse and leaving it on the dresser.

She looks surprised but works to cover it with a smile, taking him by the hand and leading him to sit down on the bed.

"This your first time, darling?"

"Not… exactly. Well, it's my first time _here_ , but my erm, my superior officer. You know," he mumbles, aware that he sounds stupid and incoherent, but not really wanting to find the right words.

"He did it, did he? And now you've got a taste for it?" There's something sympathetic in her voice. "Don’t worry, it's hardly unusual."

"It's not?" he asks hopefully.

"No, lots of men like it. Especially soldiers. Must be all that ordering around." She smiles. "Shall I do that as well?"

"I don't know," he replies, not sure if that would help.

"Okay, we'll just start with this for now, and you tell me if you want to try something else with it."

d'Artagnan nods mutely, and his nervousness must be showing on his face, because Josette gives his hand a quick squeeze. "Try and relax, you'll enjoy it more. Now strip off, and get on your hands and knees on the bed."

As he removes his clothes, d'Artagnan watches her open the door to a large, slightly dented-looking armoire. Inside there's a whole selection of implements – a wooden paddle, one that appears to be made of leather, a couple of whips, some floggers, including one with some very nasty-looking knots in the tails – and a few switches like the one Athos has in his office. She selects one of those and tests it against her hand, feeling the flexibility of the wood, and he finds himself beginning to get aroused watching her, knowing that she's testing it for use on him.

"Just the caning? You don't want to warm up with something else?"

"No, just the cane please," he replies, not wanting to make it any more confusing by adding new elements to the mix.

"So polite," she says approvingly as he gets himself into the requested position, embarrassed to find he's presenting his arse even more blatantly to her than he had bent over Athos' desk. "I find it hard to believe someone so well-behaved could earn himself that kind of punishment."

"I spoke without thinking," d'Artagnan explains, finding that he's actually glad of the opportunity to talk about what happened. After all, she's been nice to him, and maybe she can help him figure things out. "He's… my friend, sort of, but he's also my superior, and I just… I didn't realise where the line was."

"And you forgot yourself, mm? What happened then?"

"He grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to his office," d'Artagnan continues, finding to his shock that allowing himself to relive what happened is starting to make his body respond already. "At least I think it was his office. And he told me to… drop my breeches and lean over the desk. And then he just hit me."

Josette swings the cane, which lands on his arse with a resounding thwack; not as hard as Athos had, but with the same sharp sting. "Like that, darling?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan replies with a gasp.

"How did he do it? Quickly, slowly?"

"Slowly and steadily. A few seconds between each swing. Harder than this."

She chuckles, "Well, I won't start off too hard, I'm guessing you want to enjoy it this time." Another steady swing of the cane, sensation singing along d'Artagnan's nerves. "I'm going to keep going like this, and I want you to tell me if you start to feel different in any way."

As she keeps readily delivering the strokes, d'Artagnan notices that he's starting to get used to the pain, in the same way he did before. This time it's easier though, as it was never so acute to begin with, and it becomes easier to relax into it until he feels like he's being carried along by a tide of sensation. It's almost… pleasurable, which is a thought that immediately makes him panic.

"Stop."

Josette stops immediately, crouching down by the bed so she can look him in the eyes. "What is it?"

"It started to feel different, like you said."

"In what way?"

"It was like I could just ignore the pain, like I was… floating?"

She smiles, stroking his cheek with her hand. "That's good, darling. That's how it's supposed to make you feel."

The relief d'Artagnan feels is overwhelming. Just to know that he's not the only one, that this is a thing that people sometimes do, that it _can_ be enjoyed, and that Josette at least understands what it's like for him.

"Are you ready for some more?" she asks, and he takes a deep breath before nodding.

"Yes. I'm ready."

"Okay. Tell me when you start to feel like you're floating again."

This time it's easier to get back to that place, and he tries very hard not to let himself be shocked or scared by it, but just to experience it. He feels warm and somehow calmer than he has all evening.

"I'm there," he says, and feels her next hit come down harder, as hard as Athos had hit him; but this time it doesn't hurt nearly as much, and he feels the warm floating feeling grow with the pain, holding it at bay. His arousal's growing too, as if it's feeding off that new sensation, and with a few more strokes of the cane he's fully hard, cock pulsing insistently, gasping at every hit.

Suddenly Josette stops. "Do you want me to touch you?"

The question surprises him, and he's so turned on that he almost agrees; but something stops him, though he's doesn't know why. "No."

"Okay." She puts the cane down and sits on the bed next to him. "You don't want to come at all?"

"No," he repeats. "It doesn't seem right somehow."

He's not sure if she understands, but she doesn't question it, just strokes her hand along his back. "Lie down then, and relax. You're done."

He rolls obediently onto his side, and instinctively reaches for Josette's hand, still feeling uncertain, like he needs something to ground him. She squeezes his fingers in response. "How do you feel?"

"Weird. Sort of shaky."

"That's to be expected. That was a very intense thing you did, and you need to take some time to recover. How did it measure up to the first time?"

"It was different. I mean, I enjoyed it. But something wasn't the same."

She gave him a kind smile. "Perhaps the cane's not the only thing you've got a taste for." When he doesn't respond, she says, "I'll hope to see you again, darling. Even if you just want someone to talk to about this."

d'Artagnan kisses her hand. "Thank you," he says gratefully. "I might take you up on that."

 

* * *

 

d'Artagnan has the next day off duty, and finding he's yearning for the open countryside, he takes his mount and rides just out of the city, where he can sit along the unspoiled riverbank and enjoy what is turning out to be a beautifully warm day.

He feels like everything makes a bit more sense to him now, and that he went away from the brothel having made peace with himself to a certain extent. He's still himself, after all, just with the addition of a desire he didn't expect; and he knows there's somewhere he can go now if the yearning gets too much again.

He pushes the thought of Athos away.

He decides that being caned yesterday was definitely better than the first time, physically speaking, and more pleasurable – because it was intended as enjoyment and not punishment, he supposes, and he'd managed to find that relaxed, aroused, weightless place in the midst of it that was somehow safe, that Josette has assured him was the purpose of the whole experience. He hadn't felt that with Athos.

And yet he can't help wondering if he _could_ feel it with him, now that he knows it's there, now that he knows to seek it out.

Even though he knows it's pointless, he can't help wondering.

There's also the not-insignificant question of what this means for his future, he thinks pessimistically.

There are only a few things that he wants from life: he wants to be a Musketeer, and he wants to fall in love. And he wants to be able to give that love his all, and not have this shameful secret that he can only indulge for money, that seems to him like it could be no more than a half-love.

He couldn't love Josette, and even though he'd always thought he could love Constance, if she wasn't married, he can't imagine she would be willing to do what he'd want from her.

He sighs. God only knows how he's going to find happiness.

 

* * *

 

The weeks pass, and d'Artagnan manages not to dwell too heavily on what's happened, though it feels like he's lost something: something he had never consciously been aware of, but now that it's gone he can only feel the gap in his chest where it used to be, and he doesn't know how he can fill it again. Once or twice he almost goes to see Josette, but he has a hunch that that isn't what he needs.

Something has changed in his relationship with Athos, too; it was probably inevitable, now that d'Artagnan's realised that its nature is far more complicated than he'd previously understood. Still, he seems to have a greater awareness of his comrade and, he hopes, friend: he's begun to feel his presence as a physical thing, and finds himself accompanying Athos whenever he's allowed to, if only to watch and be near him.

He rationalises it by saying to himself, who wouldn't want to emulate Athos? Admittedly not in every respect, his troubled past being something d'Artagnan decidedly doesn't envy; but as a soldier, he appears to d'Artagnan's admiring eyes to have no equal.

Which makes it all the more surprising, even to himself, when he disobeys Athos a second time.

As with most of the trouble d'Artagnan gets himself into, it happens because he acts instinctively without stopping and thinking. But what's worse about this is he feels like on some unconscious level it's deliberate, that he's just been waiting for an opportunity to answer his remaining questions in the only way he knows how: by cheeking Athos once more, getting under his skin, and seeing if he can provoke him into punishing him again.

So when Athos informs him that the three Musketeers are going to investigate a series of high-profile robberies while he spends the day with des Essarts' company on parade, standing for hours in the baking sun just to impress the bloody Duke of Brittany, who nobody likes anyway – well, d'Artagnan's answer becomes as clear to him as glass.

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Athos replies, and d'Artagnan notices that his tone has become dangerous, but he's decided he's doing this now and he stands firm.

"I said no. I won't be left behind again."

d'Artagnan takes in the scene in front of him. Aramis and Porthos are looking at him with twin expressions that say, _Are you out of your mind?_ And while from Athos himself he'd expected anger or even boredom, the expression on his face seems to be a mix of puzzlement and concern.

Abruptly d'Artagnan realises that he may once again have bitten off far, _far_ more than he can chew.

"With me," Athos says at last, and strides off in the direction of his office, presumably expecting him to follow. Aramis and Porthos part to let d'Artagnan past, still looking at him as though he's been dropped on his head. But despite the sinking feeling that this isn't actually going to be what he's bargained for, another part of d'Artagnan feels weirdly elated – as though nothing can touch him, nothing matters as long as he gets what he wants again.

He follows Athos up to the small room automatically, having to run a little to keep up, heart in his mouth as Athos unlocks the door.

"Kneel on the floor," Athos orders, as soon as d'Artagnan's over the threshold; and he obeys without a second thought, still carried along by the pumping of adrenaline in his system.

But as he sees Athos sit down at the desk and take a _book_ out from one of the drawers, all his confidence abruptly drains away. "What-"

"Quiet," Athos says, holding up a hand, in a tone that brooks no argument, and starts to read.

d'Artagnan has no choice. He stays kneeling, feeling more and more uncertain by the minute, cursing his own foolhardiness.

He realises belatedly that he hasn't heard Athos turn a page since they've been there.

It's not a reassuring discovery.

Going by the ache developing in his thighs, he must have been kneeling for a good five minutes, before Athos looks over the top of his book and says casually, "You will stay kneeling until you're ready to explain why you deliberately opposed me in front of other officers."

d'Artagnan half-seriously wonders if he can just stay kneeling forever until he dies of shame, and get out of the upcoming conversation that way. Unfortunately, that's probably not a workable  plan.

He reels off a string of the most imaginative Gascon curses he knows in his head; but that takes him no closer to any solution other than telling Athos the truth.

He shouldn't have been so stupid. _Anything_ would have been less stupid than this. Athos is a clever, well-educated man, and it's not like he wouldn't be able to figure out that if the punishment he's meted out appears to be absolutely no deterrent at all, then there's something else at play.

But as soon as he starts to think about the possibility of saying the words, his face flushes, his heart pounds, and he starts to feel physically sick.

Though what choice does he have? Short of walking out and giving up the apprenticeship he's earned, everything he's fought for – all Athos has given him?

And it's that thought he holds onto as he grips his kneecaps with his hands, trying not to shake, and speaks, in a voice that cracks and wavers.

"I wanted to see if it would happen again."

Athos puts his book down on the desk.

"That's not the whole truth, is it? Try again."

d'Artagnan feels so wretched that tears begin to prick in the corner of his eyes. But he _has_ to. He got himself into this situation, and now he has to see his way out of it honestly.

"I wanted it to," he says at last, eyes downcast. "I wanted you to…" he can't bring himself to finish.

He steels himself as he hears Athos get up, but the other man comes round to lean against the front of the desk, and lifts d'Artagnan's chin with his hand. "Look at me." d'Artagnan reluctantly meets his eyes.

"I have as much a responsibility to you as you have to me," Athos says softly. "I will endeavour to give you everything you need. But I'm not a mind-reader. You also have to be prepared to tell me."

d'Artagnan lets out a breath, overwhelmed with relief, and nods silently, feeling a sudden, ridiculous urge to rub his face against Athos' hand, which he manages to resist.

Athos looks away, and they just stay like that for a while. d'Artagnan's thigh muscles are burning, but he doesn't care. If he could stay here indefinitely, with Athos – not angry, seemingly not disappointed either, just… maybe even understanding, then that sounds a lot like contentment to him.

Eventually, Athos clears his throat. "As punishment for your insubordination, you will spend tomorrow cleaning and polishing the uniforms and equipment of any man who wishes it, including all the spares." d'Artagnan screws up his face in distaste. That will be a truly _awful_ job.

"Tréville will make sure there's another officer to keep an eye on you and provide you with the necessary supplies. I'll be attending a function at the palace." Athos' hand slips round the back of d'Artagnan's neck. "I will be back at around four. If you wish you may report to me here at that time. Now, des Essarts is expecting you. Dismissed."

d'Artagnan stands up on shaky legs, and walks from the room, his heart lurching as he realises what Athos must have meant about reporting to him.

He's so deep in thought that he all but walks into Aramis and Porthos as he passes through the garrison courtyard. "Excuse me," he mumbles, and not sure what else to say, just keeps on walking, though he can feel their eyes following him.

 

* * *

 

Spending the entire day oiling and polishing is as much of a dirty, horrible job as he had expected it would be, but d'Artagnan finds he can take some solace in the fact that he's earned it. Whatever the reasons for his behaviour, he _did_ talk back to his superior officer, and not for the first time; and Athos would not be fair if he hadn't given him some form of punishment.

Cleaning countless uniforms and weapons is tough, physical work, and by the end of the afternoon, d'Artagnan's arms ache with the effort, but he's worked harder than he has in weeks nonetheless, kept going by the promise of his appointment with Athos this afternoon.

He can't stop running through Athos' words of the day before in his mind, trying to work out if there's anything else he could have meant. He can't come up with anything. Athos talked about giving him what he needed, which made him feel no small amount of shame; but as usual, Athos is probably right, given how the idea has obsessed him, and given what he's risked in order to try and get it.

The question of _why_ Athos is willing to do this for him, if he has in fact understood, is another thing entirely; but he's learned in the short time that he's been in Paris that Athos' motivations are often so opaque that dwelling on them is not going to get him anywhere. Maybe he does see in d'Artagnan the makings of a good Musketeer, one who just needs his impulses kept in check. Even if that means something considerably unorthodox.

If Athos gets anything else out of it – well, he almost doesn't want to consider it. That's not a line of thought he thinks he's ready for.

As he hears the clock chime four, d'Artagnan is polishing the last cuirass in his pile; and though it's tempting to rush it in order to get to Athos' office as quickly as possible, he only has to imagine the other man's disapproving expression to feel chastened by his own impulsiveness. So he takes up the polishing cloth again, even though his fingers are stiff and aching, and makes sure he does the best damn job he can manage.

Once he's informed Gaspar that he's finished and been formally dismissed, he walks up to the familiar little room as fast as his legs will take him, irrationally worrying that he's missed the appointed time and that Athos will have gone. But when he knocks on the door, he hears his superior calling, "Come!", and steps gratefully inside.

Athos is reading again, what looks to be the same book as before, this time with his booted feet up on the desk. He makes no attempt to move them as d'Artagnan enters.

"At attention."

d'Artagnan immediately snaps into a stiff soldier's posture.

"How did it go today?"

"All the spare uniforms and weapons are oiled and polished, plus about ten of the men's own."

"Good." Athos closes his book and puts it down on the desk, and even that little movement sends a thrum of tension through d'Artagnan. "Now. I wish to make it clear that _that_ was your punishment for your insubordination yesterday. I will no longer be using the cane as a form of punishment, as I see it doesn't have quite the effect I intended."

d'Artagnan feels his cheeks heating, but continues staring straight ahead.

"When I ask something of you in this room," Athos continues, "I will endeavour to make it clear whether it is punishment for an infraction, or something that I am offering in order to help you. If you're not clear on that, then you _must_ ask. Consider that an order.

"You need to bear in mind that what I suggest may not always be what you want, and I have no intention of coercing you into anything because you believe it is intended as punishment. Do you understand that?"

"I – think so." d'Artagnan replies.  

"Good. If you're ever unsure, ask me first. Now, am I right in thinking you'd like to be caned again?"

d'Artagnan's mouth is dry, but he still manages to reply. "Yes."

"Yes, _sir._ " Athos insists.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Athos says, pleased, and d'Artagnan feels a warmth in his chest knowing that _he_ has pleased him.

"Now get yourself ready for me."

This time Athos makes no movement from his seat at the desk, and d'Artagnan realises with some trepidation that Athos is going to sit and watch him take his breeches down.

For a moment he can't bring himself to move, speak, to do anything at all.

Athos notices, of course, and gets straight to his feet. In a few strides he's standing behind d'Artagnan. "Hands on the desk."

d'Artagnan obeys, and feels Athos reach around to the buttons at his breeches.

"I'm going to ask things of you that you find difficult to do," Athos says quietly, his mouth close to d'Artagnan's ear, slowly beginning to undo the buttons. "If you don't want to do something, that's fine. But if you do want to but don't dare, then all the other thoughts you have – fear, shame, ideas about what you should and shouldn't want – they just make it harder to do what you want. If you stop thinking so hard, trust me and just obey, then it will get a lot easier. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy."

d'Artagnan flushes at the compliment. If anyone else called him a boy he would challenge them, but here and now, in this room with Athos unbuttoning his trousers, it seems strangely fitting.

"When I tell you to get yourself ready for me, this is what I mean," Athos continues, pushing d'Artagnan's breeches down and moving his hands to the lacing of his smallclothes. d'Artagnan just about manages to stifle a whimper as Athos' hand brushes his rapidly-hardening cock through the thin linen. "Breeches and smallclothes around your knees. Legs together. Forearms on the desk."

"Yes sir," d'Artagnan says again with a gasp as Athos pushes his smalls down and his cock springs free, warm against the chilly air in the room. Athos is right, it _is_ easier not to fight against something he knows he wants, to just obey first and not to think. He settles down onto his forearms, and pushes his cheek against the cool wood of the desk, feeling a rush of excitement as he does so at the memory of the last time he was in this position.

He hears Athos' footfalls as he walks over to the armour rack to collect the switch that's propped up behind it. d'Artagnan tenses, expecting an immediate swish and the crack of the cane against his flesh, but instead he startles as he feels Athos' leather-gloved hand come to rest on the curve of his arse.

"It's going to be different this time," Athos says. "Last time it was a punishment, and it was supposed to be unpleasant. This time, I'm going to make sure it's more pleasurable."

He brings his hand down with a smack on d'Artagnan's arse, holds it there instead of letting it bounce off. It stings a lot less, is more of a deep thudding sensation that lingers for a second. It's also considerably more intimate.

Athos rubs the flesh briefly where he's hit, and then strikes again in exactly the same place, and d'Artagnan can't help gasping, then bites his lip just as quickly to stop the sound escaping.

Athos pauses. "While I don't recommend you shout the building down, you don't have to keep quiet," he says gently, holding his hand in place. "Any noise you make helps me judge whether or not you're enjoying it."

d'Artagnan thinks of Josette, of the calm centre of arousal he reached, and understands that that must be what Athos means, that he knows about it too, and murmurs his assent. Athos, seemingly satisfied, starts to hit rapidly, blows falling all over both cheeks, until d'Artagnan's entire backside feels warm and tender.

"Good?" Athos asks, stopping again; and d'Artagnan mumbles his assent, not feeling able to trust his voice.

Athos suddenly grabs him by the hair, and yanks his head upwards. His face is very close. "I asked you if it was good."

"Yes, sir," d'Artagnan breathes, gaze inexorably drawn to the glittering in Athos' eyes.

"Good boy," Athos says again, letting go of his hair; and another flush of arousal runs through d'Artagnan straight to his cock, as he thinks that he really shouldn't like that as much as he does. "I'm going to get the cane now."

 _Yes_ , d'Artagnan thinks guiltily, but he's starting to feel like he's entering that warm, floating space, like he had done with Josette, and the embarrassment at what he wants and what Athos is doing for him is slowly dissipating.

"I'm going to give you thirty strokes," Athos says to him, "and I'll keep count for you. If you have to stop, tell me and we'll stop, but I want you to take as much as you can for me."

In that moment, d'Artagnan feels like he would do anything Athos asks.

When Athos hits him, finally, it's as hard as it was the previous time; but with the warm-up, even though his nerves are already sensitised, d'Artagnan feels that he's better equipped to take it. The warm, weightless feeling seems to surround him like a cocoon; and it is only as the strokes continue, progressively harder, that he feels the pain pushing through and threatening to overwhelm, and then it's only the thought that he's doing this to please Athos that keeps him gritting his teeth and trying as hard as he can to simply accept.

"Thirty," he hears Athos say at last, but he's so overwhelmed with pain and sensation that he barely hears or understands; and when no more strokes come, he's slightly surprised to find that it's over.

Athos places a hand back on his arse, rubbing in gentle circles, sparking sensation along his already overloaded nerves.

"Good boy, you took that very well. You may touch yourself if you like."

d'Artagnan's hand is on his cock before he's even conscious of what Athos has just offered; and it's barely a few strokes before he comes with a gasp, hard, all over the surface of the desk.

As he recovers from his orgasm the fog in his brain begins to clear, and he begins to regain some understanding of where he is: Athos' office, underclothes round his knees, his own seed glistening on the desk, and Athos' gloved hand still on his burning arse.

"You should clean that up," Athos' voice is very low and very close, "before it dries. It seems you'll have to use your tongue."

"I…" Mortified, d'Artagnan nearly refuses; but the part of him that wants to do everything that Athos asks of him is the same part that felt so calm and cared for just a few moments ago, and so clinging to that thread, he bends to lick the salty fluid from the desk's surface, concentrating on the feel of Athos' hand, asking himself why he's doing this.

The fact that Athos wants it seems to be enough.

"Very good." Despite the warring feelings inside him, d'Artagnan glows at Athos' praise. He feels the gloved hand squeeze his shoulder once, before he hears retreating footsteps as Athos goes to sit behind his desk once more.

"You can clean yourself up if you wish," Athos says, pointing to the far corner before picking up his book once more and ignoring d'Artagnan in a way that feels a little bit like rejection, though he supposes Athos is really only trying to provide him with some privacy.

He turns to see a bucket of water and a cloth in the corner.

A bucket of water and a cloth that he could have used to clean the desk.

At that, something in d'Artagnan's brain shuts down, something he's not quite ready to deal with. Instead he walks to the bucket and washes automatically. The water is cool against the heated skin of his arse, and feels to be relieving the stinging a little.

Just as he's done buttoning up his breeches, Athos looks up at him. "Come over here."

d'Artagnan walks obediently back to the desk, feeling very self-conscious indeed now that the haze of excitement has died away.

"Kneel," Athos points to the floor by his chair, where there's a cushion lying on the ground, as though it's been put there just for him. As d'Artagnan settles down, Athos puts one hand on the back of his neck and just rests it there, gripping lightly. d'Artagnan vaguely wonders what all the kneeling is about, whether this is something Athos likes; it's definitely nice to be able to just be there and share space with him without having to look him in the eye or have a conversation, and the hand on his neck is reassuring.

After a few minutes, Athos squeezes his neck, and d'Artagnan looks up expectantly. "Here's how this is going to work," Athos says, looking down at him with an expression that's difficult to read; but d'Artagnan thinks may be something like care or approval. "You may report to me every week, here, this time, unless our other duties prevent it. You always have a choice; I only ask that if there's a problem or you want to stop, you talk to me about it first. Don't just not show up.

"Any questions you have, ask me. If there's anything you do or don't like, tell me. You can always say no. If there's something you'd like that you're not getting, or you might like but you're not sure, tell me. I can't stress that enough."

d'Artagnan replies, "Yes, sir," and is rewarded with a real, genuine smile and a squeeze of his neck that makes something in his heart soar.

"I'm going to dismiss you soon, but you don't have to leave until you're ready. We can stay here like this for as long as you like. Is there anything you'd like to ask first, or tell me?"

"I went to see a prostitute, last week."

"What for?"

"She caned me."

Athos ruffles his hair a little. "Okay. Don't do that again. Come to me next time. If you want to go to a prostitute for the usual reasons, that is of course your business."

d'Artagnan screws up his face. "Not particularly." Then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "This isn't… usual, is it?"

 Athos cups d'Artagnan's jaw in his hand. "No, but it's about what you need and what I can give you," he replies softly; and this time when d'Artagnan feels the urge to push back against Athos' hand, he doesn't resist it.

 

* * *

 

The next day Athos and Porthos are called to the palace once more, and d'Artagnan finds himself sharing guard duty with Aramis, who he feels like he's barely spoken to in weeks. That's probably just a side-effect of everything that's been happening to him, though; anything that doesn't revolve around Athos hasn't seemed quite real in a while.

"I wanted to ask you, actually, if everything's alright." Aramis says suddenly, and without warning.

d'Artagnan frowns. "How do you mean?"

After all, there are a hundred different answers he could give to that question.

"I noticed you've locked horns with Athos a few times. I was wondering if there's a problem."

Aramis looks concerned, and d'Artagnan realises that he has no idea what it must have looked like to Porthos and Aramis – him challenging Athos, Athos dragging him off – twice – and the way he's been acting.

It also occurs to him that Porthos and Aramis may know nothing of what's going on… or everything.

"No, it's… it's fine," he replies hastily.

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Just fine? d'Artagnan, while you're officially apprenticed to Athos, that's not set in stone. I'd be happy to take on responsibility for your apprenticeship if you prefer, and I'm sure Porthos would too."

"No, it's really – it's good. Athos and I understand each other."

Aramis claps him on the shoulder. "Good to hear. Should you change your mind, though, just say the word."

As they return to scanning the street below for potential disturbances, d'Artagnan realises that for the first time in a while, he feels truly content. What he said to Aramis was truer than he realised: Athos has seen something in him, and understood it, and he thinks it may just be true the other way round. He's still got questions – there are always questions, like has Athos done this before with someone else, and would d'Artagnan maybe be able to touch him one day – but for now they can wait; and for the foreseeable future at least, d'Artagnan's just happy to take what he's given.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 [Street of the Pubic Hair](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prostitution_in_France#Saint_Louis_IX_.281226.E2.80.9370.29)


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